


Wretched State

by Laysan_albatross



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Recovery, Sawada Iemitsu's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 21:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11193951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laysan_albatross/pseuds/Laysan_albatross
Summary: "- it’s not considered protection if you are not here."In Namimori, Reborn finds a child who has been crying for nearly five years without relief.





	Wretched State

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of assumptions have been made about the details concerning canon. Sorry if I’m not accurate. Unbetaed

 

_...Iemitsu..._

In the middle of signing notaries with his flames, his second cell vibrates on his desk, slowly edging toward the small wrought iron frame that held one of the few photos of his family, beloved Nana on the right with her ever-beaming smile, him on the left leaning in until his whiskered cheek brushed against the forehead of his tiny son. After debating the merits of answering versus letting the call reach voicemail, he picks up his cell and checks the ID: Hitman Reborn.

He frowns as he double checks the time and date on his calendar, wracking his brains for a reason as to why Reborn would call him so soon after landing in Namimori. Maybe it is to make fun of him for the ...shortcomings of his own super cute, albeit dame son, maybe it is to compliment him on his wife’s embodiment as a yamato nadeshiko, maybe it is to report his findings and initial impression which he usually would take four more days to accomplish, maybe --- he taps the speaker button and clears his throat. “Reborn! How is my wonderful family?” Though the famed Vongola hyper intuition runs weakly in his blood, the stretched silence prickles at the hairs on his nape - usually the Arcobaleno would have rebutted by now with a scathing reply, irritated from just a few seconds of exposure to his jovial presence. “I hope they’re helping you get settled in?”

“Iemitsu,” the tinny voice on the other side of the world drags his name with increasing acerbity, fury, and ...pity? “Iemitsu, you _idiot_.”

_....Reborn..._

With the Cavallone heir, Reborn had made sure to plan every second of his first impression down to the impeccable knots of his handcrafted leather shoes. He had presented himself with his reputation preceding him and had used this notoriety to instill fear and respect into his student. But with this kid, this civilian child, this project that he has accepted on behalf of the years of favors and loose association with Nono and Vongola - there’s something not right. Far be it that he has the famous Vongola intuition, but something about his would-be charge is unsettling with just a mere day’s worth of observation and reconnaissance.

Sawada Tsunayoshi’s grades in the school records, for one, are not abysmally terrible as he had anticipated. The boy is skating by, barely keeping his academic head out of the water. However, he lacks the athletic abilities that other kids his age used as a counterbalance against less than admirable scholastic talent with a clumsiness that most grow out of by age of six and draws in bullies like flies. He has no friends. His clothes are either slightly too big, too small, too long, or too short. He has no lunch which… Reborn cannot figure out whether it was due to the bullies constantly stealing his food leading to a reluctance to bring anything anymore or… And this is the least of his problems.

Though Sawada Tsunayoshi’s flames are still sealed (badly, leaking orange like a sieve), his hyper intuition is clearly given free reign, seeing how the boy coasts between crowds and taunts and attempts to trip him, slam him into lockers, or general shoving with a hurried sidestep or last second swerve - and a strong hyper intuition implies a need for a survival instinct on the level of mafia involvement. Reborn tucks his binoculars away, deciding that he has already seen enough and has reached the point where the amount of questions raised from his observations outweighed his urgent need for answers, and resisted the urge to rub his face as he shifts his weight forward along the tree branch that gives him a clear view of the neighborhood.

Not so much an average civilian then.

After securing Leon to his fedora, he hops down, brushing off stray leaves from his sleeves as he decides what mask to present to a person who acts like the world is going to turn on him at any second, a person who carefully sticks to the shadows to avoid notice as if he did not trust the town to leave him be, to even offer a hand in greeting. Reborn reaches the Sawada household by late afternoon, anticipating a couple of minutes of wait before Tsunayoshi returns from school. He stands where the sidewalk branches, splicing through an unkempt lawn of overgrown grass and weeds contrasting against the immaculately trimmed yards of the neighbors, to the doorway. He notes that the tutoring flier that he had dropped into the mailbox the day before is gone, though he had not received a call earlier in the day confirming his arrival. He pulls the brim of his hat lower, shielding his eyes from the glaring sun.

A skinny, petite figure rounds the corner at the end of the block and freezes at the sight of him. After a tense beat, Sawada Tsunayoshi visibly gathers himself, muttering imperceptivity, just enough for Reborn to read his lips, “- finally shows himself?” An example of hyper intuition at its finest: the boy had somehow sensed his presence during his reconnaissance, a feat that high ranked mafia men and women have failed to accomplish. The boy’s face is narrow, his wrists are bony, the skin between his collar bones and his neck are dotted with bruises in various stages of healing, his mood is depressed, his affect is flat - he has the resting face of a… Reborn recognizes that face, has seen that face before in a mirror once, long, long ago.

The boy stops two meters before him and tilts his head, considering, eyes darting about and landing on various passerbys: Kimi-obaasan tending her lone sakura three houses down, Saburo-san walking his dog across the street, and Etsuko-san’s two sons playing on their bikes by the traffic lights. Sawada adjusts his straps and sighs, “Hello. Can I help you?”

Wrong. Wrong. If his instincts hadn’t already been screaming at him, Reborn would’ve delivered a swift kick to the stomach for the child’s impertinence, but already he can see the boy palming something that glints in the rays of the setting sun - metal - sharp. “Maybe you can. Ciaossu,” he instead greets in a carefully measured tone, “I’m looking for Sawada Nana.”

“Umm... What? Why?” Sawada fidgets again as the muscles at his neck twitch, shoe soles sliding above the concrete, shifting until they are shoulder’s width apart.

Rudeness. Impertinence. Foolishness. The boy needs to learn some manners. Reborn’s fuse is already at the wick from this entire exhausting, hellish day; he exhales, “Business. Tutoring.” A tendril of sky flames reaches out from the cracks of Nono’s seal, barely a ripple in the air, and lingers in the space between them. Reborn’s eyes widen in the shadows under the brim of his fedora - holding his breath as the roar of armonia samples his words, his character, brushing against his surface emotions and intent. _Sawada has done this before._

Whatever the boy found placates him - he relaxes his stance by a hair and walks (on his toes with nary a sound) around Reborn, edging by the border where sidewalk meets grass, to reach for his mail, “Tutoring?” He muses as he briefly scans through three envelopes and tucks them under his arm, “You mean the flyer? Looked like a scam but since you…” Reborn follows him through the door and looks around despite his host gesturing at the couch. Minutes drift by as he fusses with the tea before setting two mugs down onto the coffee table, “You’re here and…” he falls silent, once again giving an impression of a boy who does not participate often in social conversations. “I don’t think I can afford you.”

Another slew of questions comes to the fore. _Why do you worry about your family’s finances? What forced you to crack open Nono’s seal?_ “Your father has already paid.” The boy slowly blinks and to anyone not versed in body language, accepts Reborn’s statement with placid acceptance if it wasn’t for the fact that the room dropped a few degrees centigrade.

_This house is quiet. There are no photos._

“My...? You’re in contact with… with...” Tsunayoshi struggles to find the words before giving up, sighing as he sank into his chair, rubbing his forehead. _Sawada Iemitsu, the absentee father._ “Can you send something to him? From me?” The room warps with an undercurrent of orange. “You s-see, I’ve been trying to reach him for a long time. I need to give him something.”

“Show me,” Reborn demands without changing posture. Tsunayoshi straightens, padding over to the bookshelf and removes a worn envelop from between two pages of a photo album. Reborn takes the envelop, fingering the unsealed top and, with a belated shrug from the boy, reads an old copy of the Sawada Koseki, the family registry, documenting births, adoptions, and death.

“Mama memorized his phone number,” Tsunayoshi tells Reborn as his eyes glues to the name _-Nana Sawada-_ “She never told me what it was. After she… everything… not here, he sent a postcard from Antarctica saying that he became a star. There wasn’t a return address.”

...

Reborn silently counts to ten before he hears a deep shuddering breath. “My wife is dead?” Tsunayoshi flinches at the voice over the speaker phone; the boy has been flinching since the idiot on the phone picked up with his usual jovial tone. Joviality turns to somber turns to grief turns to anger. “For how long? How did this happen? Why was I not informed? You...” Reborn rereads the Koseki and then sorts through his notes regarding his observations of the young Sawada and Namimori as Iemitsu began to weep.

“I did not see any Vongola guards in town.” Reborn reports as he hears footsteps and indiscriminate yelling on the other side of the phone, most likely Lal Mirch. “The investigations into the security and information breach on my own will take a week at most. At this point, however, your son and your family affairs are my priority.” Leon unfurls on the brim of his hat, his tail dropping into Reborn’s peripheral vision where Tsunayoshi huddles against the wall with his hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, physically motionless, leaking sky flames that danced and hovered at the edges. Reborn pulls out the postcard from Antarctica with a generic picture of emperor penguins and Iemitsu’s scrawl and doodles of tuna fishes.

“I...” The CEDEF leader manages to strangled out before coughing, “I’ll send Turmeric and Oregano… no, I’ll send Basil instead of Turmeric. He closer to my son’s age. I trust them in my stead. I will inform Nono of the turn of… events and then I will-”

“You will be joining your subordinates on that plane to say goodbye to your wife,” Reborn interrupts harshly. “I don’t expect you to be here in time for the wake but you will attend her funeral and participate in the bone picking ceremony with your son.”

Iemitsu growls. “Do not test me, Hitman. You just stated that she died five years ago. Why would her body still be in any condition for a wake? If there were such arrangements, they would’ve occurred upon her death.” Reborn sighs, fighting the urge to pinch the skin between his eyes. Leon tongues the edges of the setting, quickly withdrawing, hissing as if the cold can burn. “Reborn? Reborn. What are you not telling me?”

...

“Do you know why I didn’t find any police records?” Reborn had continued to grill the child. “Why didn’t you inform the authorities?” Tsunayoshi developed a mulish expression.

“Authorities? Back then, there were no authorities in Namimori: the Momokyokai yakuza oversaw the law. They controlled the healthcare, the police-force, and the last mayor.” This shouldn’t be possible. Namimori was, at least on paper, under Vongola’s protection since Primo and his family had settled roots in the humble town generations ago. Reborn was beginning to suspect an underlying conspiracy: at best - incompetence, at worst - a motive. “Then Hibari-san formed the Middle School Disciplinary Committee and even if I went to him, how was I supposed to explain the… Ara…” The boy had started gesturing widely, nearly tipping over a lamp in his frustration with his lack of articulation. “Ah, I don’t even know where to begin.”

Again, each answer brought ten more questions. Reborn had raised a hand to calm the boy, waiting until he exhausted himself and his skittishness dissipated into something more manageable. “You can start from the beginning.” The Arcobaleno coaxed, facing his palms up, “It will be hard on you, Tsunayoshi, but I need to know how your mother died.” Tsuna’s flames infused the room with a faint orange glow. With a lock on his own strained and alarmed instincts, Reborn had remained motionless as sky and harmony licked across his skin in anthropomorphic curiosity, tasting his resolve. Now was not the time for tempers to fly; this potential student sitting before him could not be treated like Dino - the trust between them was fragile still and could shatter any good will the boy might develop in the future towards the mafia and Dying Will. “I am here to help you.”

The flames had withdrawn, satisfied with the truth. The boy slowly stood, chair legs screeching on the floor and he pushed back, mumbling, “It’ll be better if I show you. It’s hard to explain and… no, don’t put on your shoes. Sorry, its here.” Reborn followed him through another doorway. “It’s hard to believe. Sometimes, I don’t believe until I go back there and see the whole - that.” He opened the second door by the kitchen, revealing…

Reborn stared.

Behind the hitman, Tsuna rambled, “I don’t know what I did. It was fire and then ice. I don’t know how to fix this. But, should I fix this? They might both still be--- He won’t move and she’s not hurt anymore and nothing changes. Everything stays. Nobody will believe me.” He repeated, wringing his hands, words flying out at barely comprehensible speeds, “Mama’s safe, right? What can I tell anyone? I don’t know why this happened. Why did this happen?” He used his sleeve to wipe at his nose, sniffing, his eyes glued to the floor.

“Tsuna,” Reborn had toed at the ice with his shoe, “You need to let them go.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You will learn that nothing truly stays. She is already dead.” Not even sun flames can save her from a fatal wound and five years of crude hibernation.

“I know that. But-”

“Mama has probably been with her killer longer than her husband. You need to let them go” Reborn tilted his hat back, eyes flickering between the macabre scene of Sawada Nana and an unknown Mafioso locked in a cruel embrace (his machete clearly piercing her heart and out her back) and the boy still with his head bowed and hands clenched. The mafioso’s eyes were half-closed in satisfaction, lips drawn back in a sneer, unaware of his fate. Her eyes were wide with echoes of shock and pain, young still, having not aged since she was frozen in time. Perhaps in another universe, she would’ve been the one greeting him at the doorway to the Sawada Household with a bright smile on her face, acting as a perfect Yamato Nadeshiko as her husband described her, with just a hint of crow’s feet at her eyes. Unfortunately, this was not that universe. “Tsuna, do you trust me?”

...

“Zero Point Breakthrough?! Tsunayoshi?! How?! Without traini-” Reborn hangs up, plunging the room once again into silence save for the soft whirl of the air conditioning from the other room. His breaths emerged as soft mist. Iemitsu will rail at Nono, will maybe even destroy this phone - but his questions will force him to move all the faster to Japan.

“Zero Point Breakthrough?” Tsuna inquires, watching warily as Leon changes into a gun. “That’s what I did with the-” He gesticulates with wide eyes and sound effects. Reborn nods as adjusts his hat. “You know how to free mama.”

“Zero Point Breakthrough is a skill bequeathed to you by your Vongola ancestor, the original founder of the,” mafia “company that your father works for, that requires sky flames, the rarest type, to dissolve. This,” He cocks the gun towards the boy, amazed at his unflinching gaze which was proof in the amount of trust he holds in a seemly toddler, “will force you to enter a state where you can utilize those flames unless,” he tilts his head, “Do you want your father to free her instead?” Tsuna’s jaw ticks - his eyes momentarily flash orange. “You are going to have to accept this bullet and concentrate on your regrets.”

“Promise that the man will die and mama will rest?” Tsuna implores.

“We will clean the blood together,” Reborn reassures - momentarily flashing back to the various strategies he has on how to rid blood stains from three piece suits. “You will oversee mama’s rest but I will help you. I…” He catches himself before he could apologize - for what? For not being here when the assassins came? For having sun flames that could not raise the dead? How did this boy, a fraction of Reborn’s true age, contain enough harmony to draw in a man whom even the strongest Dons failed to recruit? Just after an hour of exposure? This wasn’t even the boy’s full potential… “Brace yourself.”

It is laughably (insultingly) easy to kill the man who didn’t rank high enough on the mafia hierarchy to even have unlocked his flames. It takes one bullet. Reborn doesn’t miss - especially when it concerns a grunt whose frozen presence has haunted a boy’s nightmares for many years. As soon as the man’s eyes widened in some semblance of regained self-awareness, shadowed features made stark by the sudden wash of sky flames, he took a bullet clean between his brows, dying before he had a chance to scream. Leon scrambles back onto Reborn’s fedora; Reborn takes a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists.

A few meters away, Tsuna is cradling his mother’s head, using a single finger to gently shut her eyes. “I still hoped - I still thought, a little bit, that she would still be alive long enough to-” say goodbye.

The chill from the Zero-Point Breakthrough slowly gave way to cracked sky flames - bittersweet akin to the feeling of returning home after a war on the front lines - and maybe that’s why Reborn’s sun flames are reacting as they are. Brittle attracts brittle. “Tell me about her.”

That night, Reborn lies awake in a makeshift hammock in Tsuna’s room, staring up at the ceiling, having already memorized at least seven strategic locations in case of an intruder curious about the sudden rush of sky flames in Namimori. The boy is fast asleep, stiff - he must be dreaming. Maybe he dreams of his mother, reaching out to her only son, smiling before her wounds overtake her; imagination gives way to nightmare.

“You would like Mama,” Tsuna had replied, “Everyone likes Mama because she smiles even though she has such a useless husband and a dame son. She loved them both and they...”

...

Thank goodness it’s the weekend - a rain-soaked, miserable weekend, but a weekend none-the-less. “What now?” Tsuna dully asks, rubbing his sunken eyes with the heel of his palm. Reborn cradles his cup of espresso, taking a sip every time he felt the urge to mimic the other’s actions. Lightning cracks across the sky and thunder shakes the house two seconds later. They poke at their little bowls of rice and at the stale nori placed between them on the table.

What now? Well… Reborn looks at the pitiful breakfast and dimly recalls the sad state of the fridge and how the night before, Tsuna clumsily made egg custard with scallions for dinner, over-microwaved and under seasoned with a bit of shell stuck in the mixture - just enough competence to stay alive and somewhat healthy. “Grocery shopping” Reborn decides, mentally making a list of possible recipes that he can teach the child. “Then, we will look for a priest and arrange the wake. I don’t know who your mother was close to in Namimori, but we should at least expect some visitors from Italy and accommodate them.”

Tsuna’s face darkens. “Ah,” he mumbles in comprehension, derision and disgust packed into a single noise of acknowledgement.

“This is probably the best time I have to talk to you about the Vongola and why I am here.” Reborn drains his espresso, “Bring an umbrella and walk with me.”

It ended up being a cross-town trip of errands with Reborn eventually taking roost in the preteen’s hair, outlining the complications of succession and the multiple tragedies that had occurred among Nono’s famiglia. Tsuna didn’t venture forth any queries though, with prompting, could parrot back everything that he had heard. The priest was an old man who had been working pre-Hibari-Namimori era, having participated in many Yakuza associated wakes, and had learned the wisdom of not asking questions, readily agreeing to oversee the rituals with the right amount of cash. The pair of them drew many dismissive looks from their neighbors, store patrons, and classmates. (“Ah, Dame Tsuna.”) All except for three individuals.

Sasagawa Ryohei had been sprinting down a side road, practically emanating visible sun flames in his path, knocking some bystanders off the concrete. Tsuna had stumbled when he had brushed by, squeaking in surprise when Reborn’s grip tightened on his hair as he swayed to the side, sky flames shriveling as they withdrew from the older boy when he shouted his apologies. Reborn chanced a look back at the boy who bore an uncanny likeness to Knuckle and saw him glancing back with a puzzled expression on his face. Sasagawa then shook his head, as if clearing his mind of any distractions, and continued his way. So, ends the story of a potential sun guardian and what could have been.

The infamous Hibari Kyoya resided in his home, sitting at his kotatsu in perfect seiza, perusing the paperwork as his second in command, Kusakabe, stood on his right. Clouds, despite their tendency to wander through wide swaths of territories, desired for complete and total order at home. Tsuna’s papers requesting for multiple days of gathering (“crowding”) and other necessities pertaining to funeral arrangements did not coincide with the definition of order and peace. Reborn was willing to bet his fedora that Hibari was just beginning to guess who died and was growing increasingly irritated with the questions that came with the revelation. Sawada Nana was a cheerful individual with lots of friends before she gave birth to her dame son, upon which his shame soon became hers, and she reacted accordingly by limiting her outdoor visits and doted upon her only family member. Even so, how did nobody notice?

“The people who did this are gone,” Tsuna had said when Hibari finally stamped his approval onto the papers, laughing depreciatingly under his breath, “One less thing to worry about.”

“Herbivore,” Hibari handed back the forms, looking as if he was about to console and comfort, which was impossible since clouds do not deal with outward feelings and emotions (Reborn’s lackey being the one exception though Reborn suspects that most of his bluster are generated for performance value). Kusakabe’s eyebrows rose above his sunglasses, looking as though he was about to comment, before being silenced by Hibari’s not-so-subtle glare - subtle enough to bypass Tsuna’s attention but not Reborn’s. Still, nothing of note came from the exchange and within the hour, Tsuna and Reborn were escorted out of the compound.

The pair had lunch at TakeSushi where the chef, Yamamoto Tsuyoshi gave them a curious once-over before taking their orders, busying himself with his work and not engaging them in conversation. Smart man. His son on the other hand…

Yamamoto Takeshi kept peering out from the back room where he was cleaning the dishes, staring at Tsuna with a combination of hope, interest, wariness, and a silent “look over here, Dame-Tsuna” air. Tsuna was carefully admiring all corners of the establishment except for the single doorway where his classmate stood. Reborn internally sighed - so much for his plan of at least acquiring a rain that resembled Primo’s generation. The spirit of Asari Ugetsu might not be rolling in his grave but he is most likely very disappointed. Knuckles, Alaude, Asari…

Who else? Reborn has Gokudera Hayato on speed dial. Iemitsu had been making entreaties into the Bovino family and their most promising Lightning child. When the mugshot of the boy who wiped out the Estraneo Famiglia made its rounds through the underground, Nono was quick to move Vongola paintings of Daemon Spade into hallways less frequented by visitors. Interestingly enough, there is a girl in Kokuyo Middle School, the daughter of a Japanese superstar, who bore a similar mien and ancestry. Possibilities, possibilities, possibilities.

> A decade into the future, after years of wandering, Yamamoto Takeshi will eventually find his anchor and purpose within Tsuna’s sphere of influence, not quite the primary rain guardian, but a trusted friend, a second in command of a second in command, depending on how one interprets the hierarchy. Of all the people affiliated with the Vongola, he will be the strongest candidate for the empty rain guardian slot and yet Tsuna will hesitate to allow him in.
> 
> “It would’ve been possible if there had been no tragedy,” Reborn will admit, sharing a late drink with the young Rain, “I had been banking on the instant flame connection but I hadn’t accounted for the other many variables. It was a bit sloppy of me. Vongola blood is forgiving but less trusting. You were all kids in middle school, but that doesn’t take from the fact that a baby Sky was suffering in the presence of potential flame candidates. The strongest bonds are formed through endurance and during that hardship, he had suffered alone.”
> 
> Takeshi will rub at the ‘x’ shaped scar on his chin in wistfulness. “Ara. I always thought it was because I never interacted, much less supported him during our time at Namimori. If I hadn’t laughed with the others when he was being bullied. If I hadn’t been so obsessed with baseball. If I had only looked beyond myself at school and actually saw him.”
> 
> “You were young. You all were.” In the end, it will work out, to an extent. Yamamoto will eventually stumble upon the “Mafia game.” Hibari will eventually spread his influence beyond Namimori and encounter Tsuna in a meeting mediated by Fon with the intent of establishing an alliance with the main force of power in the western world. Sasagawa will eventually join due to an incident regarding Vongola, Skull’s airship, marshmallows, marshmallow sandwiches, and Lambo’s ten-year bazooka, details unknown as no one there was willing to relive the memories.
> 
> “Do you think I could’ve done anything back then to make things better?” In another universe, according to the new head of the Millefiore, Tsuna’s inner circle had borne a mirror resemblance to Primo’s generation. _Neo-Vongola_ \- people had whispered with awe. In this universe, a decade after the fact, ‘Neo-Vongola’ can barely use Zero-Point breakthrough without dry-heaving, his beloved mother’s death haunting the recesses of his memories.
> 
> Reborn will pat Takeshi on the arm as he flags the bartender for a refill. “It is what it is.”

_...Tsuna..._

_Ring… Ring… Ring. Ring… Ring… Sigh._ “Moshi moshi? Sawada residence.”

“Ah ha! Tsuna-fish? My little tonno! You still sound so much like your lovely mother and I don’t know whether I want you to be more manly or have two Nanas in the house!”

“...Otou-san?!”

“That sounds so formal! I am your papa! Call me Papa!”

“Otou-san! You need to come home! Mama-”

“Well, it looks like Mama isn’t there. You are truly a brave man then - looking after the house on your own when Papa isn’t outside traveling the world for his family! Did you get my postcard? I was a star! Your papa was a star! What shall he be now?”

“No! Otou-san, Mama is d-”

“I won’t listen until you call me Papa, Tsuna-fish! As much as Papa wishes, he can’t come back to Namimori. Papa hasn’t seen Tsuna-fish in years but Papa wants Tsuna to take care of Mama for a little bit longer. There is still so much construction work to do. In fact, I am busy right now!”

“Wait! Otou- Papa!”

“So cute! Give Mama my love and kisses! Ja!”

 _Click._ “...No… No… you… No, no, no, no…”

_…Basilicum_ _..._

Hitman Reborn stood at the entrance to the Sawada household with his trademark chameleon resting atop the brim of his hat. Oregano had taken an involuntary step back and Basil was all but hiding in Signore Sawada’s long shadow. The CEDEF were not strangers to an Arcobaleno’s wrath due to their familiarity with Lal Mirch’s caustic and no-nonsense personality, having personally witnessing the many times she responded toward Signore Sawada’s antics with swift and transient violence. In contrast, Hitman Reborn’s anger was prolonged, tangible, and scalding. Basil, so caught up in his initial fear, did not consider the option of utilizing his own flames to defuse the situation and it did not look like Signore Sawada asked for his assistance though it did look like he might need it.

Basil carefully toed his shoes off before stepping in, mindful of the many rules of Japanese etiquette, mentally running through the bits of conversational phrases he had crammed into his head in these past few days. Oregano followed shortly, eager to give space between herself and the angry Sun who had pulled Signore Sawada down to eye level, voice modulated just below shouting, “-attend the vigil and nothing more. Do you understand me, Iemitsu? You will not talk to him. You will not engage him. You will not make eye contact with him.”

The living room was infused with an orange glow that flitted from corner to corner. “Sky flames” Oregano murmured, inspecting the nearby mantle, raising an eyebrow at the lack of any mementos. Basil dithered by the bannister, unsure whether to keep his attention on the presence upstairs, meandering to and fro judging by soft footsteps, or on the argument between two very powerful men. Signore Sawada’s anger was beginning to match the Arcobaleno’s.

“-dare you to tell me how to behave with my own family-”

“-no authority figure. As of now, he has me and only me. Be thankful that he learned self-sufficiency and had not gone feral. I do not need you to undermine all-”

“If I can just explain-”

“Your lack of action on his upbringing and in vigilance over this town is your explanation. Everything else is an excuse. I don’t even know if her death was due to a rival famiglia or a simple burglary gone awry because it has been years. Does your idiotic, arrogant mind understand-”

“Ohayou gozaimasu?” Basil almost jumped at the sudden voice behind him and, heat spreading across his cheeks, caught off guard, he turned around to face the newcomer, a ready Japanese greeting at the tip of his tongue, and froze in shock.

He knew, intellectually, that the owner of the soft voice was Signore Sawada’s son. He had seen, countless times, the worn photo that the man kept in his wallet and the less worn photo framed on his study desk: Signore Sawada with his wife and a tiny boy who shared his mother’s doe-like wide eyes and pointed chin, eyes tinted slightly orange. This person standing before him was older than the boy in the photos but younger than Basil by a year or two - and yet despite his youth, he bore a strong resemblance to a very specific, venerated man whose likeness was painted in many portraits around the Vongola mansion. “Pr-Primo?!” He blurted before covering his mouth with his hands, but the damage was done. He could see and feel Hitman Reborn’s gaze piercing into his back.

Tsunayoshi Sawada slowly blinked, not as nonplussed as one should be if a stranger were to shout a seemly nonsensical word into his face, but perhaps the boy was used to people with loud verbal ticks or too tired to deal with the strangeness in the early morning. The half-lidded orange eyes and the presence of warm hearth and home was a heady, dizzying mix that stole Basil’s apology and answer. Signore Sawada rarely allowed his flames free reign among the CEDEF headquarters and the few times he did, his flames did not feel like a grieving undertow. The boy glanced away, silently dismissing Basil’s presence, “Reborn-san?” He inquired to the silent room, eponymous name made anew with an accented bent on second syllable, “These people are yours?” Or maybe he meant it as - ‘do these people belong to his’ or ‘of whom contains the ownership of these people’ - depending on the translation. Nuances are so often missed when one isn’t accustomed to the native language.

Hitman Reborn gestured assent, his chameleon darting down his arm, “They are of the _Consulenza Esterna Della Famiglia_. Remember what I said about CEDEF?”

Tsunayoshi frowned, “CEDEF. CEDEF. Ah, hai, yes I remember.” He bowed in the general direction of his audience, “Hello, I am Sawada Tsunayoshi. Pl-please have a seat and I will be back with some drinks. Your rooms are not yet prepared; sorry for the inconvenience.”

Signore Sawada took a step, hand outreached, “Tsuna-”

Hitman Reborn deliberately reloaded his gun, causing the larger man to fall silent once again. After cringing from the metallic click, Tsunayoshi gave a hesitant smile at the pair, “Please call me Sawada-san. In Japan, g-given names are reserved for friends and family and since Reborn is someone I trust... It’s, ah, a cultural rule. But, I am being rude. Can I have your name?”

The Arcobaleno seemed to be prompting Tsunayoshi to say more, but the boy ended up squirming in confusion under the former’s gaze. “You don’t see…” Oregano’s eyebrows rose above her hair line. Basil edged towards the shadowed corner by the bookcases, trying to keep as inconspicuous as possible. He does not belong here and yet he cannot look away. Hitman Reborn gave an uncharacteristic sigh, “Tsuna. He is family.” The boy frowned, gaze snapping from the Arcobaleno to Signore Sawada who had stayed silent. “He is your father.”

_Did he not realize...? Did he forget?_

The temperature of the room dropped. “Oh.”

_He did._

On the private plane flying back to Italy, as Basil drums his fingers on the armrest, he will contemplate the lack of family photos in that house and how, for years and years, without any visual or physical reinforcement, a child can genuinely not recognize blood family. All the family photos that included Signore Sawada were handed over later by Reborn, dusty from neglect. For one night, father and son sat before the body of a much beloved wife and mother with not one word spoken between the two. Before leaving, Basil made one attempt at trying to repair their relationship but made the situation worse by inadvertently admitting to his apprenticeship under the man and their own father-son relationship.

> After the entire affair had finished, the people scattered, the shrine cleaned and swept, Signore Sawada had watched his son removing the candle wax from afar. “Well, you certainly didn’t need to worry about me making any eye contact with a person who barely acknowledges me,” He had muttered in Italian to Hitman Reborn, “talks to me, much less calls me his father. We will be leaving tomorrow morning. Will you be seeing us off?”
> 
> “Most likely not.”
> 
> “Can’t even pull away for an hour or two? He is clearly independent.” Signore Sawada frowned at the Arcobaleno, “Are you his Sun guardian?” The man had received no answer, “You are, aren’t you? My, my… What will Nono say.” Basil’s eyes had widened when he heard the revelation from the open window of the guest bedroom. After brushing off all the offers of other mafiosos and dons for generations, the infamous Reborn, the strongest Sun in the world, finally attaches to a Sky, a non-affiliated mafia-ignorant child-Sky. This is unprecedented. “Will you be letting any other Suns close? You seem to be the jealous type.”
> 
> “I wouldn’t push much further, Iemitsu.”
> 
> “But Reborn, if I stop asking, how am I to know what to tell Don Vongola?”
> 
> Hitman Reborn’s answer came after a lengthy pause. “Tsuna will be involved some way or another, rest assured. He is equally likely to head the Vongola, change the Vongola, or destroy the Vongola. Everything else you impart will be your prerogative. I will be sending my report to Nono within the week.”

Basil is back on the plane, roused from his thoughts by a persistent drumming of fingers on a varnished armrest. Signore Sawada had shifted his position three times in the past three minutes with a creaking of old joints. He reaches again, for the fifth time in the past half hour, into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a pile of photos bound by a rubber band and begins to silently, quickly leaf through them: a family man, a loving wife, a doted upon son. Signore Sawada sneezes. White clouds roll past the window; the pilot announces their preparation for descent into Italy skies.

> “I love my family,” Signore Sawada had told Reborn just before they returned to the house. The statement was such a non-sequitur that one could only guess its intentions. To convince Reborn? To convince himself? “I did everything in my power to protect them.”
> 
> Reborn tilted his head to the side but did not adopt a doubtful expression. “I’m sure you did. However, it’s not considered protection if you are not here.”


End file.
